


midsummer peaches

by evocates



Series: a revolution for the sake of one man [2]
Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 01:26:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5355791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Midsummer in Valjean’s garden. Set sometime between Book III Chapter 12/Chapter 24 of <i>all sinners crawl</i> and Epilogue One.</p><p>Done for a Flash Fiction challenge going around Tumblr sometime in October. I didn’t remember to post until now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	midsummer peaches

It is mid-summer, and the peach tree in the garden has grown overladen with fruits. So they have spent the morning picking peaches, filling baskets upon baskets with them. Javert is the one on the stepladder – because Cosette insists that he is more trusted with it instead of her Papa “who will just climb the tree and put himself in danger” – and he fixes his eyes on the fruits, trying to catalogue the different sunsets captured on their skins.

He’s trying to not stare at the way Valjean’s arms bulge more and more beneath his shirt with every fruit landing in his basket.

Valjean, Javert discovers, eats peaches like a child.

His teeth are not white or completely straight, but Javert is not looking at them. He’s transfixed instead by the pale pink lips made gleaming with the juices as he bites in. Valjean’s skin glimmers bronze in the over-bright sunlight of noon as he sucks on the flesh of a particular peach. Juice slips from the corner of his mouth, seeps into his beard. Beads of it hang on the rough, wiry hairs of his beard like jewels.

Juice drips down his arm, light pink sliding past the shackle-scars on his wrist. Valjean makes a sound under his breath, like frustration, as a few drops seep into the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. He tilts his head, lips closing around the base of his wrist. His mouth hollows as he sucks.

“Don’t do that,” Javert says, unable to stop himself.

Brown eyes dart up towards him, surprised. 

“Sorry, that’s probably dirty,” Valjean says. He smiles, a little sheepish. “Do you have any wet wipes?”

“No,” Javert says. “That’s not what I mean.”

Before Valjean can ask him what he _does_ mean, Javert shows him: his longer, larger hand closes around Valjean’s, bracketing the half-eaten peach lightly before he lifts the arm. Tilting his head, his tongue darts out between his teeth. He licks at one swollen droplet of juice, drawing Valjean’s sleeve into his mouth and sucking on it. Then he moves upwards, swirling his tongue around the deep-scored scars on the base of the hand.

Sweat. Sweat and the sound of Valjean’s breaths, hitching once, twice, sounding like the wings of birds trapped within hands.

He does not look into those eyes when he draws the thumb into his mouth, suckling upon it.

Valjean’s hand cups his hand around his neck, fingers splaying. Javert swallows back half a moan as one slips beneath the heavy metal resting over his throat, and he tips his head back as Valjean slides his fingers over until they are pressing lightly into the hollow.

The sound that escapes him is half-strangled. Javert’s lips fall open. Valjean’s thumb slides over the bottom one, skimming over his teeth, and Javert suckles upon it without needing to be asked.

“Javert,” Valjean breathes.

“Mm,” Javert nods. He releases the thumb. Something glints in the corner of his eyes, and like a magpie, he reaches for it.

His tongue gently laps up the tiny droplets of juice remaining on Valjean’s beard. It is rough on his tongue, but scrapes softer than sandpaper. This close, he can hear every single one of Valjean’s breaths, a counterpoint for the way his own pulse thunders beneath Valjean’s fingers. Valjean tips his head back, the skin of his throat shivering, and Javert tastes his throat.

“The peach tastes better with you mixed in,” he murmurs. The words are ridiculous, and he pulls back, smiling sheepishly.

Valjean’s eyes are dark and wide, pupils nearly swallowing the irises. His lips – wet, swollen – curve upwards. He bends Javert’s arm, and smears the open, dripping mouth of the half-eaten peach over Javert’s jaw.

“Let me try it on you then,” he says.

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> Look I can write short things!


End file.
